“Never thought I’d see the day where I was up hours before you,” I said.
“Yeah, well…” She wrung her hands together, and for the first time since she dropped my flatiron in the toilet in college, looked a little nervous.
I sat up on my elbows, and a chill ran down my spine. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” She moved over to my bed and sat down. “If I tell you something, you have to promise not freak out, okay?”
“Of course.” Few things could possibly freak me out, just clowns, walking over a wet spot on the floor while wearing socks, and fetal pig dissection (still scarred from tenth grade. Thanks a lot, Mr. Ellington). Doubtful she’d be doing any of these things in the next few minutes.
“There’s a guy.”
I lifted my brows. “I like the start of this story.”
“And he’s kind of here right now.”
As if her words summoned him, a tall guy with a square jaw, mussed hair, wearing sweatpants slung low on his hips and no shirt—for good reasons, because holy abs—appeared in my doorway. “Zoey, I’m gonna take off.” He shook his hair off his forehead in a way that rivaled Sean Hunter from Boy Meets World, and if there weren’t Zoey’s feelings to consider, I’d stand up and break into a slow clap for that perfect little move.
She sucked in her bottom lip and shot a sheepish look in my direction.
“Please, take it off,” I muttered. Okay, so I couldn’t fully hold back.
She smacked my leg and turned to me, “I’ll be right back.”
“Take all the time you need. Bye, Shirtless Dude,” I called to the retreating guy.
He smiled. “Bye, Roommate Whose Name I Don’t Know.” His deep voice rattled down my chest, and I had zero questions as to why Zoey had picked this guy. He was a walking, talking lady boner on a stick.
She walked over to him, and he put his arm around her as they made their way across the hall, disappearing into her room.
At least someone in this apartment was getting some.
Chapter Thirteen
Starr Media Handbook Rule #26
Coworkers can be assholes.
So that rule wasn’t in the rulebook, but I had every intention of adding it to the comments and suggestions box. If we actually had one, anyway. It wasn’t so much that I was mad Jackson assigned me work on my one weekend off. Oh, no. It was what tiny dictator grinch did afterward that reinforced the sentiment of my newly minted rule.
Brogan had called an all-employee meeting Monday morning.
After everyone took their seats at the boardroom table, Jackson set up the projector and pulled up the presentation we’d made. I should have known something was off when I glanced over to his computer and noticed my name had been left off the title page, with only Jackson’s name appearing in bold black letters.
Jackson shifted uncomfortably and grimaced, which on his face looked like he maybe had one too many of those soy lattes and was auditioning for a starring role on a Pepto commercial. I rolled my eyes. Whatever. Once we got to my portion of the slides, I’d take over and get my five minutes of presenting and proper brownnosing, and move one step further toward solidifying my position in the company. Badda-bing Badda-boom, Brogan wouldn’t know what hit him.
Marta and Eric from accounting started off the meeting, and staff members worked their way around the table with news each person brought from their specific division. Since Jackson sat next to Brogan, we were the last two to present our information.
I shuffled my notecards in my hands and the damp edges started to curl around the curve of my palm. Okay, so I was a few steps beyond a little bout of stage fright. This was the first time I’d done a presentation not talking out of my ass, and at this point, the notecards were merely just a security blanket in case I fumbled over my wording. Zoey would truly be proud of my preparation, except for the fact that these technically were her notecards. She was too busy talking on the phone to Shirtless Dude for me to ask to borrow some, but the girl was an office supply junkie—I doubted three notecards would really put her out. Just in case, I’d buy her an extra pack next time we were at Costco.
As soon as Zelda sat down, Brogan pointed to Jackson. “Go ahead,” he said. He drummed his fingers along the edge of the table, almost seeming to tap out a tune. If I were to bet, I’d guess it was a song from one of his thousands of records lining the walls in his office. Is that what he did when everyone left for the night? I could picture him leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes while the pop and crackle of some sweet baroque melody on the record player flooded the corner office. That delicious mouth would be slack and completely kissable.